


Extraction at Tiffany's

by Kangaruth



Category: Breakfast at Tiffany's (1961), Inception (2010)
Genre: Crossover, Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-07
Packaged: 2018-04-30 05:31:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,307
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5152100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangaruth/pseuds/Kangaruth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur moves into a flat in New York to research a mark. His downstairs neighbour catches his eye. But is he who he seems?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Arthur is flustered. He's rarely flustered but today he is on the wrong end of a 13 hour flight, running late, and has somehow wound up with the wrong keys to his new apartment plus his phone battery is dead. And Dom is not here to meet him like they organised. So, despite not being the one in underwear and a fucking sleep mask, he feels distinctly at a disadvantage when faced with his new downstairs neighbour. The neighbour smiles, says he understands completely, as Arthur tries to explain his predicament and apologise for waking him and then is closing his apartment door in Arthur's face before he knows what's happened. This may also have something to do with the fact that the man is drop dead gorgeous, sleep tousled hair and sleepy eyes and all, with a gravelly English accent. The gravel might be sleep-related, too, though.

“Wait,” he shouts, maybe more suddenly and forcefully than necessary, but it has the desired effect that the door doesn't close. “Sorry, sorry. But my phone is dead,” he manages, “I don't suppose I could possibly borrow yours to make a phonecall?”

His neighbour pulls on a robe and waves his hand. “It's around here somewhere,” he says. Frankly, Arthur isn't surprised he can't lay a hand on in immediately. The apartment is somewhat of a mess, clothes strewn about over various pieces of mismatched furniture, boxes and suitcases.

“When did you move in?” Arthur asks, trying to make smalltalk as the neighbour searches.

“Oh, about a year ago. Ah,” he suddenly exclaims, “it's in the suitcase. He flips open one of the many suitcases, and it is full of mismatched paisley. Rummaging, he comes up with a phone. “I put it in there to muffle the ringing.”

“Why didn't you just turn off the sound?” Arthur wonders.

“That honestly never occurred to me,” marvels the neighbour and hands over the phone.

Arthur starts to input Dom's number when he notices. “Wait, is it 10.15? I thought it was 11.15! I just got off a flight from Rome, I must have miscalculated the time difference.” He sighs with relief. He's not late after all, and Dom won't have arrived yet.

“Shit, is it really?” Arthur's neighbour is not so happy with the news. He suddenly starts getting dressed, right in front of Arthur, pulling on some hideous green pleated slacks from the back of the chaise and grabbing one of the paisley shirts from the now open suitcase. As he pulls off his robe and t-shirt Arthur gets a view of his chest, and his mouth goes a bit dry. “I have to catch the train at 10.45, they're so particular about visiting hours.” He casts about a bit and seems to come up with some socks, although they don't look like they match. “Be a darling and see if you can't find my shoes. They're black alligator.”

Arthur looks around, no clue where to even start to look. “I think they're under the bed,” is the helpful suggestion he gets, so he ventures over to the door which opens into the bedroom. If anything, the bedroom is a worse mess than the living room. Arthur can't imagine living for a week like this, much less a year; he's the sort of person that properly unpacks in hotel rooms. He peers under the bed, somewhat gingerly, and finds one sneaker, various takeaway boxes, a lurid purple tie and various other detritus, but no black alligator shoes. He starts a half hearted search of the closet, but the one shoebox in there contains what appears to be an alarming array of dildos, so he shuts the door and backs away quickly, tripping over one of the shoes in question. There is no sign of the other, so he retreats back to the living room. His neighbour has buttoned his horrific shirt and found a horrible jacket that matches his horrible pants and is slicking down his wayward hair into a neat side parting. All through this the neighbour has kept up a monologue about the people at his destination – how they make such an effort that he feels he needs to, too. “I don't think Fischer would mind too much either way,” he is saying as Arthur hands over the shoe with a shrug, “but I do like to blend in.”

“Blend in? Wearing that?” Arthur can't imagine a place where anyone would blend in wearing the outfit the man in front of him is sporting.

“It's not the outfit that matters, darling, it's the effort. Frankly, the visitors to Sing Sing generally don't have my good taste, it's true, but then few of them have the money for a Dunhill suit, either.”

Arthur ignores the jibe at his (very nice thank you) suit. “Sing Sing?” Frankly he doesn't know why he's surprised.

“Yeah, the prison. Stupid name for a prison, right? Doesn't have the same ring as Wormwood Scrubs. I visit Mr Fischer there every week.”

“Wait, Maurice Fischer?”

“The very same. I knew his son, Robert, from school you know, so when Mr Browning – that's Robert's godfather. He's running the company now that Maurice is in prison - met me at a Christmas party six months ago and asked me to pop in when I could, I said I would. 'Eames,' he said, 'it's so good we ran into each other. Robert can't get to New York as often as he'd like and I think the old man misses him.' So I go in his place, and Mr Browning gives me a hundred bucks a week to do it. Everyone's happy.”

Arthur is somewhat shocked. His and Dom's new client is very interested in Maurice Fischer and they're looking into extracting from Browning. To have run into someone in Arthur's new building who is connected is somewhat suspicious.

“Oh, don't look so shocked, darling. They never proved he was fixing the energy market, he's just inside for something to do with taxes. I never believed any of it. He seems like a grumpy old git on the surface but he's really very sweet. Oh, look, there's my shoe!” and he grabs it out of the fruit bowl. And seriously, the fruit bowl?

“How do I look?” he asks after sliding it on.

Arthur is feeling bowled over. “Great,” he says. It should have been a lie. No one should be able to pull off the outfit that Mr Eames is wearing, but somehow, against all the odds, it suits him.

“I couldn't have done it without you, darling,” he says, somehow keeping Arthur in his orbit as he leaves the apartment and out into the street.

“Any time,” says Arthur. “I'm just upstairs, or will be when I move in.”

“TAXI!” calls Eames, letting out an ear-splitting whistle. “Oh, my phone, thank you, darling!” He plucks it from Arthur, who was barely aware he was still holding it, slides into the taxi that has appeared as if from nowhere, and disappears before Arthur can catch his breath.

He turns around to re-enter the apartment building, and then realises the door has shut behind him. “Shit!” he says out loud, and contemplates if it's better to wait for Dom to arrive, or to buzz another of his neighbours.


	2. Chapter 2

Dom's taxi pulls up while he's still deciding, and sorts Arthur out with the key he needs and the belongings he's brought from his house. Arthur is still mulling over his encounter with his neighbour, and his surprising connection to their mark. He's wondering if it will be something they can use to their advantage or if it is a liability but he doesn't want to bring it up with Dom until he's sure which. Instead, he concentrates on getting his internet connection set up and secure so he can start his research. Then, he and Dom go under to check the Somnacin mix they've bought for this job. Their chemist is working out of Detroit, and there's no need to bring her out to New York at this stage, but they want to be sure everything is in order. They relax and take their time, Dom sticking around as Arthur unpacks. It's chilled, in a way Arthur hasn't had time with Dom for a while, what with Phillipa taking up so much of his and Mal's time. Arthur enjoys it. He knows once the job gets closer he won't have much downtime but they have a month to start the research at a leisurely pace, until Mal's parents get back from France and take over childcare.

They call for Chinese so Dom leaves fairly late and as he leaves Arthur can hear an almighty banging on one of his neighbour's doors. Eames's? Perhaps. There's yelling, too, but Arthur can't make it out.

It is confirmed as being Eames', by the knock on Arthur's window about two seconds after Dom has gone. Arthur notes the security issue posed by the window to look into soon, as Eames manages to open it right up and slip inside. Thankfully, the PASIV is safely stowed away and nothing incriminating is lying around. But that's because Arthur does not leave things lying around.

“Hello, darling,” beams Eames. “I hope you don't mind, I just had to slip away. Men can be so persistent sometimes! He's a sweetheart most of the time, but when he's drunk I just... well I climbed out the window and came upstairs. You can throw me out if you want to,” Eames tells him, “but I thought it might be nice to get to know each other. They say in New York no one ever gets to know their neighbours. And I did wait for your friend to leave. I was getting cold on the fire escape.”

“He's not my boyfriend,” Eames arches an eyebrow at the roll of banknotes Dom left on the counter – payment for the last job they did together - and Arthur realises that the implication is somewhat seedier. Eames probably just saw Dom leaving his bedroom shrugging into his jacket and pulling on his tie. “He's my agent. I'm a writer,” he tells Eames. This is his cover identity. The man whose name he has stolen did have a book published, with lacklustre reviews and poor sales, before his demise and the cover is useful for explaining away days at the computer, sudden trips abroad, irregular hours and irregular income.

Eames seems to accept the story, although with a bit of a leer that suggests he still imagines Arthur is sleeping with Dom. Arthur doesn't care what he thinks, he tells himself. After all, here is a man who is hiding in his apartment because there's a jilted lover banging on his door. But he doesn't have time for men like that.

“Okay, Mr Eames, time to go.”

“Oh, darling, don't be like that. I didn't mean to offend. “I'm simply awful at putting my foot in my mouth sometimes. You remind me of an old friend, you know. It makes me lose my guard around you. So you mustn't mind if I talk a bit of nonsense, okay. I understand, darling, I really do. Let me stay and make it up to you. You can tell me all about your writing. I bet it's fascinating.”

Arthur doesn't know why he relents. He's not usually this much of a sucker for a pretty face, but the man seems harmless, if somewhat effusive, and Arthur wants to find out more about him and his connection to the Fischers. “Fine, yeah, stay a while. Let me get you a drink,” he offers.

They end up sat on Arthur's bed, although he's not entirely sure how, when there's a perfectly acceptable couch in the living room, and talk for a while. Eames has endless tales of the society men he flirts with, and occasionally dates but mostly just uses to get invited to the best parties. He skilfully avoids, Arthur notices, the topic of his background and negotiates Arthur's vague probing about Robert and Maurice Fischer with what Arthur would suspect is skill if it didn't seem so artless. He supposes he must be wealthy, if he went to the same school as Robert Fischer. Although perhaps his family don't approve of his lifestyle, or else why would he be living in a small apartment in Arthur's building?

For his part, Arthur keeps the conversation to his writing career. He's used this cover before so is able to talk a bit about the novel he is supposed to be writing, and Eames seems fascinated by the topic.

It flows easily, they get on well. Arthur hasn't forgotten his earlier suspicions, but they seem absurd in the face of Eames' easy manner. Arthur has barely noticed how late it is, when Eames slowly doses off into his glass of whisky. He takes the glass and tries to rouse him, but Eames is nearly dead to the world. “Can't I just stay here, darling?” he asks sleepily, and Arthur shrugs. There's room enough, he supposes, and Eames is hardly in a state anything other than sleeping. And Arthur isn't sure he'd be entirely adverse even if Eames were to make a pass. He is very handsome. And perhaps Arthur has had a little too much whisky, too. Perhaps he ought to sleep.

He disappears into the bathroom to get himself ready for bed and when he comes out Eames has toed off his shoes and snuggled down under Arthur's blankets. Arthur stops for a moment to check his totem – surely this sort of thing doesn't happen in real life – but it does appear to be reality, so there is little to be done but to get into bed himself. He drifts off with the feel of a warm body nearby.


End file.
